


This is an Empty Country (and I am the King)

by XriotfallingX



Series: Longer and Louder (Long After You're Gone) [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Big Gay Mobsters, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence, clearly I have no idea how to tag this, living the life of crime, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XriotfallingX/pseuds/XriotfallingX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avery Campisi has been living on the wrong side of the law for most of his life.  Alejandro Cruz is ex-special forces turned mercenary.  Everyone gets caught up in the whirlwind (not everyone has as much fun).</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is an Empty Country (and I am the King)

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics from maize stalk drinking blood, by The Mountain Goats.
> 
> This story is currently un-betaed, so please be gentle with any mistakes I may have made

_I let the sky fall_

_this is an empty country, and I am the king_

_and I should not be allowed to touch anything_

 

~

 

Milwaukee, 2016

 

When Avery steps foot on the Casino floor, immaculate, three piece pinstripe suit and fedora tipped at a jaunty angle, polished cane tapping on the floor, the games don't stop (the games stop for no man), dice continue to clatter to the table while dealers shuffle cards and the wheel spins round and round. He does draw attention though, eyes flick up at him before returning to cards, security mutters to each other though their earpieces, well dressed, respected men and women of society whispering to each other.

 

A waitress in a slinky, shimmering dress appears almost instantly at Avery's side, saying "would you care for a drink, Mr. Mazza?" And offering up a silver platter of champagne flutes.

 

"Thank you, Doll," Avery says with a charming grin, taking one of the glasses even as his eyes dart endlessly around the room, taking everything in.

 

"And for you, sir?" The girl asks, stumbling slightly over her words as Cruz's eyes land on her (burning emerald, offset by his sharp charcoal suit). He doesn't move otherwise, hands clasped behind his back, standing two feet off Avery's left like a well trained, well dressed guard dog.

 

"Oh he's fine," Avery says with another quick flash of his teeth, "you can run along now darling."

 

"Of course sir, enjoy your evening," the waitress says with a gorgeous smile, but she's a bit pale, and then she's gone with a swirl of glitter and a clack of heels.

 

Avery makes a slow lap around the room, making note of the variety and arrangement of the games, the security guards and cameras placed about, the gaudy gold plating on everything, the over abundance of bright lights.

 

"Spared no expense, did they?" Avery mutters to Cruz, who has been a constant presence, just off his left side, the entire tour of the room.

 

Cruz's face stays serious, but his eyes are glowing as he says _"gold paint could dress up even a rathole,"_ in quiet, rolling Spanish (voice growling around the edges, throat still rough from smoke inhalation).

 

"Perhaps, we'll get some for your car, dress up that rats' nest," Avery suggests just for the way Cruz's eyes flash. Another waitress appeared at Avery's side, just as glamorous as the first, and just as pale beneath her make up, shaking just slightly as she replaces Avery’s empty glass with a fresh one before disappearing through the crowd. "You scare the locals," Avery murmurs, amused.

 

Cruz's lip barely twitches in the direction of a smirk as he says indulgently, _"this is all for you."_ Avery smiles, lips pressed to the edge of his champagne flute, watching the eyes that can't stop flicking towards them, listening to his own name floating across the room and back on hushed conversations.

 

Avery is making his way back across the room, winding through tables and flashing sharp toothed smiles at anyone who meets his eye, when he's approached by one of the security. The man is tall, built thick as a red wood, and his face carries the lines of countless years under strict reign. His glock is an awkward lump under his suit jacket.

 

"Mr. Mazza, are you ready to start the meeting?" The man asks. His accent is barely noticeable (Polish, hint of German), he's worked hard to hide it. "Or did you want to try your luck at one if the games first?"

 

Avery makes a show of tapping his finger against his chin thoughtfully, letting his eyes sweep over the room again, all the flashy lights and all the interested faces. "I'm not sure it would be all that good for business to clean you out before the meeting has even begun," Avery gives the man his widest, most innocent smile, big blue eyes and pearly whites as he asks "what do you think, Mr. Kozlo?"

 

To his credit, Jakub Kozlo doesn't appear visibly startled, there's just a subtle shift from his dismissive attitude to something much more wary, the way he holds his weight, the sharp look in his eye. "I will take you to Mr. Jamesson," he says, voice still flat.

 

"Please do,” Averys says, waving a hand in the direction that he assumes the office lies, based on the layout of the building and the security.  The slight widening of Kozlo’s eyes, and then the man is leading in the direction Avery had indicated. Avery smirks to himself, follows after a beat, saying “time for the games to begin,” quietly to Cruz (never far from two feet, just off Avery’s left shoulder), who only huffs silently in reply.

 

~

 

Chicago, 2015

 

Dressed in baggy jeans, ripped at the knee, worn t-shirt, his smooth black hair curling slightly against his shoulders, Avery looks much younger than twenty seven. Cruz stops in the doorway, just stares (Avery’s bare feet propped up on the coffee table, can of soda in his hand, laptop perched on his thighs and he looks like a college kid), until Avery looks up at him expectantly.

 

“Well?” Avery asks, his face as flat as his voice, “did you bring the stick back?”  Avery can’t stop his lip from twitching in amusement, his deep eyes shining with it, and Cruz doesn’t roll his eyes, but he thinks about it.

 

 _“I brought you the life of your enemy,”_  Cruz says, taking slow measured steps across the room, _"exactly as you asked me to."_ He stops at the edge of the couch, close enough to see that the entire screen is taken up by a chat video with Lunden.  The man is busy trying to untangle his hands from a mess of wires, so Cruz says _“I brought you something extra, too.”_

 

“Did you, now?” Avery asks, quirking an eyebrow.

 

“Is that Cruz?” Lunden demands from the screen, twisting his head like that will change the angle of the camera. “Is that Cruz that you’re smirking at like a smug bastard?”

 

 _“No,”_  Cruz says, while Avery chirps “Yes, my faithful pet has returned to me, just like a children’s story.”

 

“With way more violence and innuendo,” Lunden snorts indignantly, rolling his ice colored eyes. “Let me talk to Cruz,” He demands, that fire in his eyes that means he has yelling about expensive electronics to do.

 

 _“No,”_ Cruz says again even as Avery twists the laptop so Cruz is faced with the full force of Lunden’s (infamous, literally infamous) glare.

 

“We need to have a serious talk about what happened to the last earpiece I gave you,” Lunden is practically spitting the words, eyes vicious slits glowing in the light of the dozen screens that surround him (deep in his basement lab, under a house in Kansas).

 

Cruz gives the furious man a wide, sharp grin as he reaches forward to close the laptop.  “No tengo nada que decir al respecto”he says, taking great joy in the way Lunden’s voice rises several octaves in indignation.

 

“What? What are you saying to me right now?!" Lunden squawks, his flailing figure distorted as the screen tilts, “don’t you dare cut me off!”

 

“Nothing to say,” Cruz translates, smiling wider, Lunden’s shouting silenced abruptly by the laptop snapping shut. He moves the computer from Avery’s thighs to the coffee table, then uses a booted foot to roughly shove the whole table several feet.

 

“This has been a delightful display of maturity, start to finish,” Avery is smiling smugly, even as his feet drop to the floor, leaving him draped half off the couch, “from everyone involved. Do tell me y'all are going to fight on the playground later.” It makes Cruz smirk, the slip of country slang into the sentence, and Avery’s obvious amusement at Cruz and Lunden’s childish dislike of each other (and his sprawled position, looking loose limbed and young). “You do remember that he doesn’t understand Spanish, right?”

 

 _“You understand,”_ Cruz says, kicking Avery’s feet apart so he can drop to his knees before him, watching Avery’s eyes flicker just a little darker blue, “that’s enough for me.”

 

“Is it now?” Avery asks mildly, feigning disinterest as Cruz’s fingers dig into his knees, finding bare skin through the gaps in the denim. “I believe you said you had something for me," Avery continues, body one long arch as he leans sideways to balance his soda can carefully on the edge of the couch, turning his attention back to Cruz with half lidded eyes and a low smirk, "or were you just teasing, Pet?"

 

 _"I would never,"_ Cruz fakes affront (it makes Avery snicker), and hands over the dagger, watches Avery's eyes widen as he removes it from its sheath, takes in the hand carved design on the blade.

 

"Oh you do spoil me so," Avery says, voice soft, as he lightly drags the pad of his thumb up the edge of the blade, watching the flesh part easily and a small drop of blood well up.

 

"It reminded me of you," Cruz says, in English, because he knows Avery likes the way it sounds (accent thickest its been since he left Spain), because he can feel Avery's full body shudder through the hand still on his knee.

 

"Good boy," Avery breathes, slow smile curling, warm and dark, across his face, holding the finger out so Cruz can lick off the bead of blood (like a reward).

 

~

 

Chicago, 2001

 

"You, kid."

 

Avery freezes abruptly, about to slam his way out the door of the small restaurant when the voice stops him.

 

“You looking for a job?” Marcello asks, and Avery eyes him warily (he knows he is, must have heard the restaurant manager turning him down).

 

“What kind of job?”

 

“Smart kid,” Marcello says, laughing, “come on, sit down and let’s talk.”  After a moment’s hesitation, Avery joins the men at their table.  “You look familiar,” the man says, staring thoughtfully at Avery’s face.  “What’s your name kid?”

 

"Avery. Campisi."

 

"So that would make you Joe Campisi’s grandson?”

 

“That’s what they tell me, Sir,” Avery replies blandy, and the other, equally well dressed men around the table chuckle.

 

“I’m Marcello Moretti,” the man says, holding out a hand.  At thirteen, Avery is still tiny (all arms and legs), but his handshake is firm and there’s not a hint of fear on his face. “I was friends with your grandfather, many years ago.”

 

“I never met him,” Avery responds with a small shrug.  “He passed away the year before I was born.”

 

“Well,” Marcello says, leaning back in his seat, small smile on his face, “I owed Joseph Campisi a favor, and now I suppose I owe you.”

 

This is how Avery starts running packages for the mob (making way more money than he has any right to).

 

~

 

Milwaukee, 2016

 

Charles Jamesson's office is possibly more lavishly decorated then his underground casino, though admittedly more tastefully, mahogany and thick carpeting, authentic paintings covering the walls. The man himself is seated behind the ornately carved desk, world weary and wide shouldered, though a little thick around the middle.

 

Avery sits in the plush chair offered to him, while Cruz hovers to the side, angled so he can keep an eye on the entire room. There are three more security guards in the spacious office, but Avery keeps his eyes firmly on Jamesson as he says "Mr. Kozlo here offered to let me 'try my hand' on the games," not even trying to hide his amusement. "I might be insulted, didn't you warn your men about me at all?"

 

Jamesson doesn't even flinch, just smoothly replies, "I warned them not to expect anything. Case in point, no one has ever brought so little back up into a meeting with me."

 

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want to do the whole thing, my friends meet your friends and maybe we all go out for pizza later?"  Avery asks with a sunny smile, lounging back in his chair comfortably

 

"Shouldn't all your friends be college kids anyways?" One of the security guards who's not Kozlo snarks.

 

"You should probably still be having slumber parties," another man adds. Avery doesn't even spare a glance at the men (John Matthews, failed marine, and Andrew Defuche, a thug who was just clever enough to land himself this cushy job).

 

"Ha! Age joke, those never get old," Avery says, rolling his eyes. "Any other witty comments from the peanut gallery? Perhaps you’d like to rag on Mr. Cruz here a bit? Call him blondie bear or something?”

 

"I think a former Legion soldier turned lap dog is enough of an insult to himself," spits the last guard, glaring daggers as Cruz's impassive profile.

 

"Oh! Zing!" Avery says, not hiding his amusement (he loves games, after all), and Cruz's blank expression doesn't falter. "Bunch of comedians you've got here, Mr. Jamesson."

 

"They think so," Jamesson says blandly, but there's a wicked light in his eye, like he thinks riling Avery up will get him anything (other than a 9mm bullet to the head and a shallow grave under a parking garage). "Now then, are we here for business, or playground squabbles?" Jamesson asks with a flat smile, laying out a thick file folder on his desk.

 

Avery grins back, sharp as a blade, saying "business if you please. Though, if you can't keep your children in check, I can always multitask." The edges of his smile could shatter diamond.

 

~

 

Ten miles south of Ellsworth, 2015

 

In an old farm house right smack in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas, Avery and Lunden are eating microwave taquitos like they're back in highschool (when Avery ran unmarked packages from one seedy Italian restaurant to another and Lunden hacked the school computers to change the grades of tests they'd slept through), drinking cheap beer from cans, and plotting.  

 

"So I guess Robin and his merry men won't be giving you troubles anymore?" Lunden asks, most of his attention stuck on scooping up as much salsa as possible onto a taquito.

 

"It would seem that way," Avery says, lounging out on the old kitchen chair, "I don't think they'll be doing much of anything, with their leader an unidentifiable mess. Cruz is still working to remove the last of the good Mr. Robin's blood from his fingernails."

 

"Charming," Lunden says with enough sarcasm to crush a small village, and Avery laughs. "So what's the next move, Boss man?"

 

Avery shrugs one shoulder lazily. "I'll keep an eye out, make sure no further trouble pops up in or around the greater Rockport area, and if it does, well," he trails off for a moment, deep blue eyes darkening (like an angry sky), “I may just have to get personally involved.”  

 

Lunden bites his lip against anything he might say to that, knows better than to push when Avery gets that stormy look on his face. Avery has aliases that still send fear zinging through the heart of every wanna-be crook in Chicago. Instead he just waits until Avery finishes his beer and returns from the fridge with a fresh one and lighter eyes to ask "can you get ahold of a couple SuperH microprocessors for me?"

 

Avery smirks slightly at him and asks "doesn't Isley usually take care of that kind of thing for you?"

 

"I haven't talked to her since Mardi Gras," Lunden mutters into his beer (they both take a second to shudder at the mention of the weekend no one quite remembers), then petulantly adds "I don't want to talk about it."

 

"Neither do I," Avery says happily, obviously trying his hardest not to laugh.

 

“Well, good,” Lunden pouts.  Several long moments go by in which Avery grins widely at him and Lunden continues to sulk, before finally Lunden suggests “movie marathon?”

 

“Just no chick flicks, I don’t need to getting all weepy on me,” Avery snickers, and Lunden throws his empty beer can at him.

 

~

 

Chicago, 2015

 

The polished SUV pulls up to the curb outside the small restaurant, and Avery flings off his seat belt.

“I’ll be right back,” Avery says as he tugs his suit jacket straight and grabs for the door handle, “y’all just wait here.”

 

“If I get bored I’m leaving,” Warren says. He’s been Avery’s driver for five years, and is apparently beyond such things as respect (too be fair, he did hold Avery’s hair for him while he puked on Warren’s kilt, last Mardi Gras).

 

“No you’re not,” Avery says dismissively, and turns to point a finger at Cruz.  “Sit.  Stay.”  Cruz just growls quietly at him, and Avery pats him on the head.  “Good boy.”

 

Avery hops out of the back of the car, slamming the door behind him, and disappears into the restaurant.  Several long minutes pass in awkward silence, Cruz watching Warren glance repeatedly at in hin the rear view mirror.

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Warren finally says, twisting around in his seat to look back at Cruz, “‘cause I got nothing but respect for Mr. Mazza, seriously, but, why do you put up with his shit?”

Cruz shrugs one shoulder and says, “I play his games, he plays mine.”

 

“Is that sexual?” Warren asks after a moment.

 

“Sometimes,” Cruz says with a grin that’s more a baring of teeth.

 

“I shouldn’t have asked.  I so didn’t want to know that,” Warren mutters turning back around and slumping down in his seat.  He chews on his lip for a moment, mentally debating his next question, before asking “cliche as it sounds, how did a guy like you end up with a guy like Avery?”

 

“He won me over,” Cruz says easily, nostalgically.

 

“How?”

 

“Tiroteos y Español y un corazón de humano.”

 

“I don’t know what that means.” Warren mutters, and Cruz just smirks at him until Avery returns.

 

~

 

Milwaukee, 2016

 

“Ah, I understand,” Avery says with a sunny smile, “You’re trying to insult me.”

 

Jamesson’s eyes widen, but he remains otherwise calm as he says “I have no idea what you mean.”

 

“Then I’m afraid you’re dumber than you look,” Avery says regretfully, and Jamesson’s bodyguards all shift angrily, but the man himself remains blank faced..  “You’re asking for our protection.  You’re asking _my family,_ ” Avery pauses, eyes hard, lets the full weight of those two words sink in before he continues, “to help you, to get ourselves involved in the little game you’re running here, but you’ve just left so many holes, Mr. Jamesson.  For example, you’ve made no effort to hide or explain the incredible amount of electricity you’re using in a supposedly empty warehouse, I spotted at least three unguarded exits, and your wait staff is twitchy, not to mention you're hardly screening the people you let in here.” Jamesson’s face is getting darker as Avery talks, but he continues with a pleasant smile (like discussing the weather), “all of this, and you’re offering us what I’m guess is a mere five percent of what you make here?” Avery’s smile grows sharp, his eyes dark, “You, Charles Jamesson, are insulting me.”

 

Jamesson is mad now, face bright red, standing up in a huff as he says “I will not stand for this.”  Like it’s some kind of cue, the room explodes into motion. The four security guards start drawing their weapons, but Cruz was once the finest the Spanish Special Forces had to offer, and three of the thugs go down before the even get a shot off.  The last is taken out soon after by a knife Cruz pulls out of who knows where and throws clean across the room, only getting one shot at the chair that Avery had previously been in.  Avery has been busy jumping up onto the desk (trusting Cruz to have his back), punching Jamesson in the face and knocking him backwards into his chair.

 

The room is suddenly quiet in the echo of the gunshots, Jamesson’s men dead on the floor, the man himself half-sprawled in his chair, clutching his bleeding nose, his eyes wide and fearful.  Avery is standing on the expensive desk, hands on his hips, staring down at the bleeding man and grinning like a wild thing. Cruz stands at the corner of the desk, his gun trained on Jamesson and a long-suffering look on his face.

 

“Now,” Avery says, “we’re going to discuss a new deal.” Jamesson only nods silently, and Avery smiles wider as he says, “you’re mine now. Your casino is mine, everything you make from it is mine, everything you ever do with the rest of your life, is mine.  Play along nicely, and you’ll be taken care of, but know this, your life, your family’s lives, are in my hands now. And yes, I know about the lady friend and little one out in St. Louis.”

 

“Ok, ok,” Jamesson says in a small voice, shrunk back as far into his chair as he can manage.

 

"Good," Avery says with a bright grin, and turns to hop off the desk.  He grabs his cane from where he left it leaning against the chair, and if he's leaning kind of heavy on it as he saunters out of the room, no one will bring it up (he knew he would regret it as soon as it leapt up on the desk, really). Cruz follows him slowly out of the room, gun trained on the shaking man until the heavy door swings shut behind them.

  
  


~

 

Chicago, 2015

 

“Angel Face,” Marcello says when Avery walks into his office (Cruz not two steps behind), his tone warm and fond.  “It’s been too long, Kid, and yet you haven’t aged a day.”

 

“You seem to be doing all the aging for the both of us,” Avery says, grinning, arms held wide as Marcello stands to greet him. The man rolls his eyes, but hugs Avery readily before taking a seat in one of the armchairs.  Avery sprawls gracelessly across the couch, and, after a moment, Cruz sits stiffly beside him.

 

“So,” Marcello says, linking his fingers in front of him and raising his eyebrows, “care to tell me exactly what that fiasco on the news was about?”

 

“That was entirely Cruz’s fault,” Avery says with a sunny smile, and Cruz just blinks slowly (maybe sighs a little bit, its hard to tell).

 

“I find that hard to believe,” Marcello says, smirking despite himself.

 

“I was being strictly metaphorical when I told him to burn down the forest,” Avery says reasonably, and Marcello shakes his head.  Avery’s phone starts ringing, and he pulls it out to check the screen.  “Do you mind?” He asks Marcello, wiggling the device.

 

“I think fondly of the days you held in me fearful respect,” Marcello says, but waves his hand in a ‘go ahead’ fashion.

 

“I think we passed that about five years ago,” Avery grins, and presses the phone to his ear.  “Lunden, is everything going as expected?” Avery nods a couple of times, then says “good,” and hold the phone out to Cruz, “here, you entertain Lunden while the grown ups talk.”

 

 _“Oh joy,”_ Cruz says, shooting him a glare, but takes the phone and stands up.  “No, no, not talking about your earpiece,” Cruz is saying as he leaves the room.

 

“So despite the very public nature of the proceedings, I’m sure everything is taken care of?” Marcello asks, and now his voice has that edge to it, that one that means business.

 

“Of course,” Avery says smoothly, professional face on like he’d been wearing it all along, “Jason Robins and his entire crew have been wiped out, and no one had any time to notice his little spat with us.  I have it on good authority that law enforcement is viewing this as an inside job.”

 

“So you can assure me this will never come back to us, never come up again?”

 

“You have my word,” Avery says, staring the older man straight in the eye.

 

“Unconventional, but impressive,” Marcello says, smiling again.

 

“I do what I can, though the fire really wasn’t what I had in mind.”

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now,” Marcello says, "how did you manage to," he trails off and makes a vague hand motion towards where Cruz had recently been.

 

"Tame the beast?" Avery asks, quirking an eyebrow and smirking slightly.

 

"Sure, we can go with that."

 

"I just won him over. Eventually,” Avery says, smirk growing.

 

"How?"  Marcello asks, bemusement on his face and in his tone.

 

Avery hums thoughtfully, before saying, "that's not a story I think you really want to hear."

 

"This has something to go with that mess you made in Vegas, doesn't it?"

 

Avery smiles wide, and doesn’t answer.

 

~

 

Mt. Vernon, 2016

 

In a modest apartment in south Illinois, Cruz fucks Avery across the coffee table (slow as old blood), Avery's deceptively thin wrists pinned above his head. They’re both slick with sweat after half an hour of this slow burn, Avery arching his back against the dark wood and swearing in too many languages to keep track of.

 

“Come on,” Cruz growls out, ignoring the screaming of his own muscles, maintaining his brutally slow pace, _“just let go.”_

 

Avery groans like its being torn out of him, squirming helplessly under Cruz’s far superior mass. “Oh, shit, oh Gott,” Avery pants, arches his back and whines like he’s _dying_ , “cazzo!”

 

“Avery,” Cruz snaps, voice hard, and Avery full body shudders against him.  He’s always wondered if that’s what Cruz sounded like in the military, barking orders, but he’s never asked (it is, and Cruz knows he likes it).

 

“Please, please,” Avery begs, and then goes on in several languages that Cruz doesn't even bother trying follow. .

 

“Good boy,” Cruz breathes, and starts fucking him in earnest, hard and fast enough that the table threatens to break. Avery lets out one good, loud scream, and then he’s reduced to helpless gasps, eyelids fluttering, and Cruz groans.  He presses closer so he can bite his way into Avery’s mouth, skin rubbing together from hip to chest.

 

Avery whimpers, kisses Cruz back fiercely.  His dick is trapped between their stomachs, friction driving him crazier and crazier until he comes with a stuttering moan, sinking his teeth into Cruz’s tongue.

 

The man growls in response, grinds his hips hard into the body still twitching with aftershocks.  When Cruz comes it’s with a low whine, Avery’s nails digging into his shoulders.

 

“Oh shit,” Avery laughs once he has his breath back, “my knee is gonna fucking kill me in the morning.”  His southern accent is officially reaching drawl territory (thick, warm syrup), and Cruz presses his smile against Avery’s collarbone, but he knows he can feel it.

 

 _“I’ll hack it off for you,”_ Cruz offers, like he always does, and Avery laughs (like he always does).

 

~

 

_lying in the hot sun today_

_watching the clouds run away_

_thought a little while about you_

_the sky was a petrifying blue_

**Author's Note:**

> This entire universe popped more or less complete into my head, so you can expect more quickly.


End file.
